The doctors said we could go home. The problem? We didn’t have one.
As my daughter hugged her favorite nurse goodbye, I numbly packed our things, dreading the shelter I’d researched on hospital Wi-Fi. Her father had left long ago, and my savings were gone.
Then two officers appeared. “We’re your ride,” one said. Confused, I followed.
In the van, an envelope materialized in my hands—familiar handwriting I hadn’t seen in years. Inside, a key and a note:
“I’ve paid for six months. The rest is up to you.”
The apartment was small but spotless, with a new toothbrush still in its packaging and a teddy bear on the bed. My daughter immediately claimed the bathtub, her laughter echoing off tiles for the first time in months.
The knock came as I unfolded the note again.
He looked different—softer eyes, rougher hands. “Brought eggs,” he said, shifting awkwardly.
I could’ve slammed the door. Instead, I stepped aside.
Now, a year later, he walks her to school while I work mornings at the clinic. Some stories don’t end where they break. They mend—one grocery run, one bedtime story, one fragile “I’m sorry” at a time.
